Epilogue #2
She looks at me, her face glowing, and she makes me feel ten feet tall. I reach into my jacket and pull out two fresh extension cords and a permanent marker.
She takes them, and her gaze holds on me. “Did you pre-plan this moment?”
“Maybe.”
“How long’s ‘maybe’?”
“Marker’s been in my jacket for three weeks.”
“I’m rubbing off on you.”
“Don’t forget our deal, Stopwatch.” I lean in, my voice dropping an octave. “You’re rubbing me off later. And I intend to enjoy every stroke.”
Ivy playfully swats my arm, then uncaps the marker. After a quick beat, she scrawls something on the plastic casing, but curls the cord against her chest before I get the chance to peek.
“What’d you write?”
“A wish.” Her chin lifts in that defiant way I love. “And wishes don’t count if you tell.”
“The ball’s plastic, not magic.”
“It is now.”
I look at her—my bossy, brilliant, breathtaking woman, standing beside the dumbest object in California like it’s sacred. Because it’s part of my story.
The instinct hits clean and certain, like fate itself is whispering in my ear.
Now is the moment.
“New rules,” I say, my heart doing a heavy thud against my ribs. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“What are you, five?”
Her expression changes. She’s almost considering it.
“Cole Hartwell,” she says, dropping into that low, warning register. “We are surrounded by people and cameras, and we are not giving the internet a show. Keep it in your pants.”
“Sounds like a private invite to me.”
“Oh, it is. And I dare you to beat your record.”
“I will… if you let me read your wish.”
“Deal.”
I scrawl two words on my cord.
We swap.
Ivy reads the cord, and her hand flies to her mouth.
I’m already moving. There’s a short length of copper wire near the base of the ball, some leftover scrap. I drop to one knee in the dirt and twist the wire into a small, imperfect loop between my fingers.
I look up at her with the rawest, truest thing I’ve got. My heart. No witty lines to protect me, just my honest self, kneeling in the dust behind a diner, holding a piece of scrap metal and feeling steadier than I ever have in my life.
“I don’t have a ring yet. But I’ll get you a real one. You can pick it out, reject all my suggestions, build a chart to cross-reference the cut and clarity, and pretend you aren’t enjoying the process. We’ll make a whole day of it,” I say with a smile. “I know in my gut that this is the moment.”
I hold up the copper loop.
“Will you marry me, Stopwatch?”
She makes a choked sound, her eyes shimmering. “Yes. God, yes—obviously yes.”
I slide the wire loop onto her finger. Her hands are on my face before I can stand. She pulls me into a kiss that tastes like key lime pie and the promise of forever.
When she finally draws away, I see the look. It’s the “Ivy Ellison is five steps ahead of me” look. I respect the look. I love the look. I fear the look.
“We need a plan,” she says.
I place my forehead against hers. “Ivy, I haven’t even wiped the dirt off my knees.”
“Don’t undermine the moment, Hartwell. This is a major life event.
It requires logistics.” She tugs on my shirt, bringing me closer like I’m part of the presentation.
“We start with seasons. Fall weddings are elite for the aesthetic, but summer gives us better natural light. However, humidity. We’ll need a venue with industrial HVAC. ”
“Ivy—”
“And guest list,” she barrels on, the words stacking, accelerating… “now Blaze with a microphone is a liability, but if we don’t invite him, he will show up anyway and hijack the DJ—”
“Ivy—”
“And florals. Cole, I have opinions. Strong ones. No baby’s breath. That’s non-negotiable. And napkins,” she continues, poking a finger into my chest for emphasis. “Napkins matter. If they clash with the centerpieces, it’s a disaster. I’ve seen it happen, and it derails the whole vibe.”
“Stopwatch!”
I grip her hips, hauling her close. Her breath hitches, heat radiating off her skin, still pink from my mouth and her yes.
“I know,” I say, softer. “Your brain just got handed the biggest project of its life. And I want every single detail. I’ll stay up with you ’till three a.m. with cake samples and table setting mockups and fabric swatches. All of it.”
Her mouth twitches. “Don’t tempt me. I will build a dove contingency plan.”
“I believe you. And I need you to know that I’m a little scared but mostly turned on right now.”
She inhales, gearing up for another round of logistics. Then—
She stops, shaking her head. Her eyes go wild.
“Nah.”
I blink. “Nah?”
“Yeah. Nah.” She exhales calmly, her expression suddenly, completely clear. “My gut is telling me… we get in your truck and drive to Vegas.”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
The words are a shot of adrenaline. My chest tightens. She comes closer, taking my hand, and I rub the copper wire now twisted around her finger.
“Cole, I’ve spent years hoping to be chosen first. I want to be yours forever. Don’t make me wait another minute.”
I kiss her hard, fast, and certain. The way you kiss someone when the deal is already sealed. This beautiful I-plan-everything-to-the-second woman—my Stopwatch—is choosing the chaos.
She’s choosing me.
“But I get to pick the chapel,” she adds. “And I already know your forearms would look insane in a vintage Elvis suit. I need my iPad. We need a 24-hour officiant with at least four stars on Yelp.”
I erupt with a full, deep belly laugh, and something loosens in my chest. She’s dragging me to the truck before I know it.
How Ivy could ever have been a second choice is a mystery I’ll never solve. She was never second. She was just waiting for someone to pay attention.
She’s the only choice. Every time. Always.
And just in case you’re wondering about her cord. Her wish was four simple, earth-shattering words: To be his, forever.
That ball has enough damn cords. I’m keeping this one for myself. It’s going in my one messy drawer, right next to that Post-it note.
The engine roars to life, purring steady and strong beneath us. I pull onto the road, the diner shrinking in the rearview mirror as the horizon stretches ahead. Ivy’s already mapping out the next fifty years for us, and I’m just here, grateful as hell to be chosen for the ride.
Best instinct I’ve ever had?
Choosing her.
***